


What More Can Tyler Take?

by Miranger



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types, Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Genre: Biting, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Edging, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miranger/pseuds/Miranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All rights to Palahnuik and the gang.</p><p>Long time writer, first time poster. Born to write, I'm finally showing the world. I've enjoyed my own share of slashes, so please, enjoy mine.</p><p>Wherein, Tyler and Jack have reverted back to a life of nothing exciting together. Jack is exhausted. Tyler is fed up. Time to intervene and coax some answers out.</p><p>Comments are welcome :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What More Can Tyler Take?

The door creaks open; it slams shut. Tyler is home. His footsteps thunk across the warped wooden floor, an echo to the drowning basement. He passes through the kitchen and into the room where I sit, staring blankly at the nauseating flicker of the screen, flat and half empty beer held tepidly in my right hand.

Tyler sinks into his chair beside me.

At first, silence. He scrutinizes me in intervals. I ignore him; my eyes glaze into the busy void of a television. We sit like this, unmoving, for 6 minutes.

He speaks.

"What was it, about a wasted life?"

I finally make eye contact with him. Those aqueous orbs, ignited by my recognition, swirl into mine; they melt the frost, diffuse the glaze. I become conscious and relax.

Slow, deliberate steps: stand, television off, enter kitchen, beer down sink, empty bottle on cluttered counter.

A deep breath brings to light the pressing brick in my skull. I find the closest glass, smudged with fingerprints, and fill it from the tap. I chug it down, set it down, and saunter back into the living room.

I glance down at Tyler. His eyes are now closed, head tilted back against the seat. His lips are dry, cracked, in this dim light they appear dark crimson as clotted blood, and slightly parted. His slouched position leaves for a pair of limply open legs, and his hands rest loosely intertwined on his lap.

I shot him two months ago, and we both have the scars to prove it. Yet, I'm still scantily sleeping, so he's back. I'm not sure if I remember missing him the first week, but I think I might have felt relieved on the eighth day when he waltzed into my bedroom at four in the morning, half naked and complaining that he couldn't believe a fucking soapmaker's lack of some goddamn soap. Not that either of us truly cared for the use of soap.

His eyes open to the ceiling, and then fall on me.

"What?"

A few seconds pass before I answer, "Where do you go, Tyler?" He stares impassively.

He then snaps back with the same question, emphasizing my name. I have no answer for him. I don't go anywhere anymore. I turn and walk back to the kitchen, crumbling into my usual cheap orange knockoff stool between the table and the stove.

He's followed me and stands watching from the archway, while I continue to vacantly watch the repressed garden overgrow into it's gloomy oblivion.

He's behind me now, hands slapped onto my shoulders.

"You're wasting away, Jack. Still. Even after everything we went through, you sit here."

I hope that if I ignore him long enough he'll disappear, but I know he won't.

"I can't help you if you don't help yourself."

Hush, Tyler. Let me sink into thoughtlessness without your constant nagging. We know what happened last time I followed you. We all know. We both have the scars to prove it.

"Don't you want to live? Don't you want to experience what life can offer?"

He's getting riled up now. I feel his frustration because he feels it. Funny thing about that. I am forced to only feel and know the things Tyler wants me to feel and know, but it doesn't work in reverse. He knows everything I think. Everything about Tyler is a secret, and even though I should be able to conquer this side of me, I can't. This scares me, because this means that Tyler is his own person now. This means I can not escape the submissive role I play, I can not dominate Tyler. This is bad, because this means no one can control Tyler, and Tyler is a ticking time bomb. Tyler is a part of myself that I can not reach. Tyler owns me.

He removes his hands.

The whisper in my ear, "Why aren't you trying, Jack?"

Something is off.

There is a gentleness to his encouragement. It isn't rowdy, it isn't pushy like it always is, so I answer him.

"I am trying Tyler."

And now he's sensed my realization, and is shoving away this side of him. Back is the Tyler I know, and a violent rumble is now in my ear.

"It isn't good enough, Jack. You can't be everything you want to be," he breaks off, deep in thought now, "You can't be me if you don't embrace life, if you refuse to understand life."

He's purposely scratching the surface of my bubbling irritation. He knows this oh too well, it feeds his fire.

"Well?" He is persistent in his demands.

Suddenly, his left hand is twisted in my hair, and my head is yanked back. I yelp in surprise, and I'm being forced to face him.

He is breathing waves of smoke on my face, reeking of tobacco, as he yells, "Why don't you listen to me, Jack!? You called me! You blew up your apartment! You created your own friend to rid yourself of your ridiculous fucking "single-serving" disease theory! You needed me!"

"Tyler stop!" It comes out like a whine more than I had intended. He's pulling my hair uncomfortably. It's not that it hurts, I just don't want him controlling my feelings like this.

"Then do as I say!"

Appease the beast. "What do you want me to do!? I followed you into Fight Club and Project Mayhem and look where that bullshit got us!"

"It should have gotten us to chaos, and in that chaos you should have found peace to live, to really live, like the rest of them. But you quit on me... Why didn't you follow me?"

"It wasn't what I wanted."

The devil on my right shoulder, calmly perched, tears at my face with desperate eyes. I refuse to give him anything, it's too dangerous. Now it's too late, because he has me figured out. I wasn't careful enough. His left hand grips tighter, and then loosens slightly.

"Jack." Fuck. "What do you want Jack?"

I make a weak attempt to turn away from him, but he clenches his hand in my hair to stop me. He jerks his hand and speaks a tight-lipped, "Tell me."

Fighting away the pain of his slightly more violent hair yanking, I whisper, "Tyler, it was always about them. It was always about society and proving your point. It was never about my opinion. You aren't the me I want."

He yells, exasperated, "Well then what did you bring me back here for!? What do you want from me Jack!?"

My whisper fades quieter, "I don't know."

"Dammit Jack, tell me what you want."

"I want to sleep. I want a clear head. I want to be thoughtless for a while."

"Thoughtless, eh? I know what you want. So say it, fucking say it Jack."

He allows me to look away now, but keeps his hand on the back of my head.

"For fucks sake, I know you better than you do."

I close my eyes, I don't look at him, and he doesn't force me, but I can feel him smirking against me. It engulfs my face in a burning pink blaze. His hand slides to the base of my neck. I keep my eyes shut tight.

He's quiet now, and all I can feel is his calmed breath on my cheek. A long, dragging moment passes.

And then, his lips are hovering on my neck, up and down. I squirm, uneasy.

His lips reach up to my ear, his words rumbling like a storm infested ocean, "I'm sorry she left you... I know it was my fault. I'm sorry you're so alone." I feel his sincerity, however, not without a sliver of sarcasm.The final sentence isn't his fault.

He pulls away and grits out, "I didn't like that stupid bitch here anyway." I close my eyes, I don't want to think about it. I feel his aggressive stare boring into my face. I take a flicker of a second to feel insecure, and then retreat back to my extreme indifference. He falters, but grits out some more, "We could find a better one for you."

My eyelids drift up halfway and study his face. He's only suggesting it to ease my mood, we both know what a terrible idea that is. I don't have the patience or love to offer to another girl, never have. Marla was a special case, she was able to pretend enough that she didn't need those things. My eyelids drift back down.

Soft, sensual, warm moisture creeps across the shell of my left ear. My eyes jolt open and a shudder racks my spine.

I attempt to push Tyler away, but not in time before he grabs my wrists and roughly squeezes them.

"Cut it out, Tyler," I spit. His teeth latch onto the top of my ear and sharply bite in quick succession. My body follows with a wince from the abrupt pain and dull ache that comes. I shout at him, "I said cut it out you fucking nutcase."

I remember I am Tyler, and can't find it in me to realize and regret that I just called myself psychotic. I'm justified, right? He's too real.

So real, in fact, that those hands release my wrists; the left sweeps up to wrap in a loose chokehold, his left hand warmly clutching my right shoulder as the right begins gliding southward.

I close my eyes and exhale a tired, "Tyler."

I struggle half-heartedly, and his left arm slams me back against the chair. This breaks the last shred of fight in me. I clench my teeth and faintly flinch as his right hand comes to rest on my crotch.

I wish I'd put pants on tonight.

He finds and grips my cock, my underwear not nearly enough fabric between our skin. This is new to me, although it doesn't feel so unexpected, coming from his extremist side. But this is us. This is how we work. Advancing swiftly with nothing said, nothing established, nothing resolved. I don't know how I feel. I close my eyes tighter and wait for his next move.

The hand moves up to the hem of my boxers, and the fingers teasingly lift it. I hold my breath. I lose my breath as the hand roughly shoves it's way in and rubs against my semi-hard-on.

My mind is gone and I just want this nightmare to end, I beg, "Tyler, please."

It doesn't stop. He takes it in his hand, and begins to gently yank it towards us. His calloused hands are warm and familiar from all those times of lifting my bloody body off that goddamn basement floor, and yet I don't want to welcome them to this part of me.

I focus on breathing steadily, and not giving him this satisfaction. It feels too good, and I can feel myself coming close to the end. He's Tyler and he's skilled; skilled as he quickly retracts his hand and feeds my cock through the hole in my clothing. He returns to jerking me off.

I panic as the wanton sound runs up my throat. I rush to swallow and bite my lip. My hands shoot up to Tyler's left arm, still wrapped around my neck. I'm squirming and sweating.

He changes pace to something more rough and erratic. I'm surprised to find it so fucking erotic, and jump a level a pleasure; so fucking close.

Tyler let's go, and I lose my heat. He presses his lips to my temple and I can't prevent the whine that escapes mine. He rumbles that stupid laugh and squeezes my cock. How does he always gain this much control over me?

My legs spread of their own accord, to the sides of the chair. My feet latch onto the bars and my hips are thrusting upwards involuntarily, trying to gain that pleasure from the stilled hand. Tyler allows this until I'm peaking. He let's go, edging me farther. My breath grows even heavier as the warmth stings me and dies. I open my eyes to see the damage.

My cock is red, angry, with veins bulging. I just need release. Release me Tyler.

"Not yet," he whispers. He licks the sweat from my temple, and I close my eyes once more.

He continues a method of slow and fast strokes that don't get me anywhere past a steady pleasure. I'm dying. I'm furious. Finish me Tyler. You've already won, now make me cum.

"Say it aloud."

"Tyler, please," my voice cracks in desperation.

"Please what, Jack? Say it for me."

I cave, I beg, I'm panting, "Make me cum Tyler! I need to cum.. Make me cum!"

Tyler moves his left hand to crudely grasp my neck and lift my chin. I don't care anymore. He pumps fiercely. I can feel the wave rolling it's way from the pit of my stomach, slamming into my cock. I throw my head back farther. My fingernails dig into the strong forearm, my legs tensing into the bars of the stool. He aims my cockhead at my face, and I shoot my own sticky white globs all over myself. The intensity of the orgasm convulses my body as it never has before, my sight blurring white, and the most awful, lewd noises are spewing out of my mouth. It keeps going and going. It should be dying, but Tyler won't stop milking the cum out of my weepy cock.

I'm relieved when I finally feel the pleasure draining. The last spurts are pumped out, along with the last ribbon of dignity I had. I shudder once, twice, and fall limp.

I try to catch my breath. I feel Tyler flex his arms, and then leave me. The loss of touch feels icy. When I hear the heavy footsteps retreating, I lift my eyelids to barely catch him turning the corner of the doorway.

The haze of endorphins weakly cries, 'come back' at him. He doesn't come back.


End file.
